


King and Country

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've served my king and country. Take pity on a soldier</p>
            </blockquote>





	King and Country

**Author's Note:**

> Big, huge, giant thanks of OMGneverendingness to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman** for all her help and encouragement.
> 
> Originally posted 2-4-06

Lancelot hates this island. He hates the Romans and the duty to them that keeps him here. He hates that he is a prisoner with prettier words and more bloodshed and that he’s spent his life hacking away at flesh as if it were the chain around his ankle that binds him to Rome.

The only thing that makes it bearable are his fellow knights who sing of home and remind him of tall grasses and warm sun. The low, guttural dialect that they bring with them and lose slowly until just the faintest trace of it remains and returns when they’re tired and weary or dying.

There are moments where it goes beyond bearing. The moments of fighting where his life balances on the edge of his swords and only the luckiest of souls might push him over. He trusts his fellow knights with his life and his back and refuses to fail them. He launches at the enemy with passion and delight and the pure instinct to survive. Those moments are as clear and perfect to him as the memories of home.

There are other moments as well; moments he speaks of to no one. Moments where he surrenders and begs and pleads and takes what slight scraps he is given. Moments where he falls to his knees and offers himself in sacrifice to the tortured depths of Arthur’s eyes and dies little deaths at Arthur’s hands.

In those moments, home is the farthest thing from Lancelot’s mind.

**

He lies to himself routinely, then berates himself for the lies. He knows the truth every time he enters the great hall and Lancelot meets his eyes. Those dark eyes are defiant and demanding, and Arthur tells himself that he will not give in. He pretends he does not see Lancelot’s knowing smirk that tells him he’s been caught out, that he sees, that he knows.

Arthur prays every day for strength, prays for guidance. He does not pretend that he knows anything more than one day to the next, but he knows that he is weak, and thus must appear strong. He rides until his horse can go no further, he fights with the cold fury of as many knights as have died under his command. He swings his blade until his arm screams in pain.

And then he buries himself in Lancelot’s willing flesh, unable to resist the need to feel and touch the scarred yet supple skin. He prays, even as he thrusts deeper, for forgiveness, for redemption, for understanding, knowing that he will not find it.

He has forsaken God, he knows as his body tightens. Surely God will forsake him.

**

He has women when he needs them. They are more than willing to spread themselves for him – Arthur’s vaunted knight – but he feels nothing beyond the flush of warm, wet flesh. There are thirsts he slakes as every knight does, thrusting and rutting into the moist honey of drunken pleasure. He feels no remorse as he walks into his quarters smelling of sex and hay. He takes pleasure in striding past Arthur and letting his eyes linger on him.

Practice is grueling as Arthur takes frustration and self-contempt out on them, pushing them until they want to drop, until Bors laughs and reminds Arthur that they’re on the same side. Arthur strides away and the rest of the knights disperse, leaving Lancelot to follow Arthur to the stables, coaxing him out of his mood.

He insinuates himself against Arthur, pushing and prodding until he finds the edge. Arthur turns and grabs him, his words as harsh and punishing as his tongue as he curses Lancelot’s name, his hands pulling at his clothing until it gives way and flesh finds flesh.

Lancelot can taste Arthur’s agony on his tongue and on his flesh and tells himself loyalty demands that he release the hold he has on Arthur and grant him peace. Instead he pushes harder and wonders which of them will break first.

**

He reads the parchment and closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over them. Lancelot stands in the doorway of his quarters, leaning on the rough hewn wood, his arms crossed over his chest. He can sense him, feel him. The words swim behind his eyes and he wishes he could retreat.

That is one thing he has never taught them – regroup, rearm, revise, but never retreat. He opens his eyes and looks over at the doorway. No war was ever won with retreat, he thinks as he moves from the table and strides over to Lancelot, stopping in front of him. Those dark eyes taunt him and his hands tremble as he reaches out. Lancelot watches his hand as it moves closer then looks up at Arthur, his eyes far too knowing.

He doesn’t recognize his voice as he touches Lancelot’s neck. “This must end.”

“You wish me to go?” Lancelot’s voice is a dare, defiant and cocksure.

Arthur pins him to the wall in response, his conflicted answers coming with quick, leather covered thrusts until they’re both shaking and spent. He cannot retreat and he cannot win.

**

Arthur is careful not to look at him as he tells them of the Bishop’s arrival, of his noble standing in the Church and of the expectations of them all. He does not look at him as he tells them that freedom is coming to them if they can keep the Bishop alive long enough to deliver it.

He does not move as the other knights go to celebrate, intent on telling others of their coming fortunes. He stays seated in his space next to Arthur and stares at the distant wall. “This must end.”

Arthur nods and sinks into his seat, offering nothing more.

“Your Bishop comes bringing your God with him.”

“My God has always been here.”

“Did he leave you when you were with me? Or simply turn a blind eye?” He shakes his head, his fingers moving over the outline of his knife. “Or was he there watching us?”

“You do not have to believe in Him,” Arthur whispered vehemently. “But you will not mock Him.”

“That is for you to do, apparently,” he taunts him. “Or do you just defy him outright when you’re with me?”

“I am not with you.” Arthur’s voice is flat and dull. “We stand together as knights, and that is all.” He turns his head and nails Lancelot with his dark gaze. “To say otherwise would be foolish.”

“Deadly.”

Arthur shrugs. “As you say.”

“Very well.” His words drip venom as he stands and moves behind Arthur, his fingers trailing across the back of the chair. “As you say.”

**

Every look from him is a promise, though Arthur knows not whether it is one of vengeance or retribution or intent. He falls to his side as always, himself in every way, though there is a hint of danger about him, a taint of recklessness. He pulls Lancelot aside at camp and shakes his head silently. “This will not do. I will not have you ride off into the flames simply because I have promised them to you.” He reaches out to grasp Lancelot’s shoulders, watching as Lancelot’s eyes glance down at them. “Freedom is at the end of this road. What you have fought for these hard, long years.”

“I fought for you.”

He swallows and closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. “Please.”

“I do whatever you ask of me.” Lancelot’s voice is light, though the weight of his words hit Arthur like an axe’s blow. “I will behave. I will save your Romans. And, when all is done, I will go away like one of the terrors that wake you in a sweat.” He shrugs off Arthur’s hand. “And your secret and your shame will go with me.”

“Do you think I do this for myself?” His words are hushed and vehement. “It is not me that would suffer should this be discovered. My God knows my sin, Lancelot. It is already discovered in his eyes. It is you…”

“It is I who does not care.” Lancelot reaches out and touches Arthur’s breastplate, a hint of a smile curving his lips as the other man flinches. “I have served you, not Rome. I would die for you. Not Rome. You, Arthur.” He shakes his head. “The only flames I desire are those of the night’s fire. I need something to keep me warm.”

**

They ride side be side, their horses moving in rhythm. They have not spoken since earlier and he can feel the tension between them. He glances over and then back, seeing the girl, Guinevere, watching them, watching him. He looks back in time to see Lancelot’s sharp glare before he urges his horse onward. Sighing softly, Arthur lets his horse fall back to a battle perhaps he can win.

After he leaves her, her words stinging his ears, he moves through the preparations of settling for the night. He sees to his knights save for Lancelot, knowing that he would not appreciate the intrusion or the implication.

Briton has been his home all of his life, without question. He did his duty. He is a soldier. And yet his beliefs, his designs were opposed to all that he heard of Rome. He has always known he will never leave this place, even to the promise of Rome. He will die here, in battle no doubt, and will be buried with all those who died for him.

Only the encroaching years have reminded him that those he loves most and holds most dear will not stay on this soil. They have lives and families to return to. He glances at Lancelot, watches him watching the girl. Heat flares in his stomach and slides lower as the ghostly shadows fall over his most trusted knight, his friend.

Who will leave him, Arthur reminds himself, even if he himself need be the sword prodding at Lancelot’s back.

**

He moves into the grove as silently as the falling snow, his eyes locked on Arthur. He stands with his back to Lancelot, his shoulders slumped. “Did she have her way with you?” Arthur sighs softly and turns his head, his eyes tormented as they rake over Lancelot. He holds both hands up in surrender, a leather bag dangling from the strap in one of them. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I’m neither in the mood for drink nor celebration.”

“All the more for me then.” He carefully the flask and took a small drink. “You did not answer me.”

“We move out early. You need sleep.”

“As do you, Arthur.” He smiles slyly and moves closer. “Did she thank you for saving her life from the evil Romans and likely as evil knights who might have left her for dead?”

Arthur rubs his forehead with his hand and sighs again. “Away, Lancelot. Please.”

“I think you are best not left unattended, Arthur.” He takes another drink and offers the flask again. “I would not wish the others to find you, unaccustomed to a woman’s touch, falling at your Woad’s feet.”

“You tread on dangerous ground, Lancelot.”

He bows slightly. “As always.” Turning his back on Arthur, he stares out at the silent lake, at the steam of fog shrouding the trees. “And how was she? Worth the heated breath of the Saxon army on our necks, dragged down with the weight of all these people you wish to save?”

“I will not leave anyone behind to die. Something you might remember you have cause to know well.” Arthur’s voice is dangerously calm and Lancelot turns to face him. “If I die, let it be in a battle I have fought to the best of my ability, doing as I have been charged to do. Something else, Lancelot, you might do well to remember.”

“You doubt me?” His eyebrow lifts and his chin rises. “What else, Arthur, would you press me to remember? Or is everything else to remain in the realm of the forgotten? She has offered herself to the great and noble Arthur, and all else falls aside?” His voice arched as tightly as a drawn bow. “I fall aside?”

Arthur sighs heavily, ignoring Lancelot’s dangerous tone. “This is not you, Lancelot. Not your fight. Not your land. Not your…”

“You are mine.”

Eyes closing, Arthur swallows hard, sinking to his knees. “Lancelot, please…”

He steps closer, his hand in Arthur’s hair, the flask falling to the ground beside him. “On your knees again, Arthur.” Lancelot’s voice is soft and hungry as he reaches down, untangling the leather laces of his breeches. “Which god will you pray to?”

Arthur’s hands grasp Lancelot’s hips, jerking the worn leather down. Short nails rake at his flesh, exposing it before Arthur’s hands slide up again. One curves around the length of Lancelot’s shaft, holding the weight of it, before he bends his head and takes the hard flesh into his mouth. Lancelot bites back a thick noise of pleasure as the heat of Arthur’s mouth caresses his skin, sheathing it from the bitter cold surrounding them.

He stares down at Arthur as he closes in, his eyes open and wide as they hold Lancelot’s gaze. He clenches and unclenches his fists on either side of Arthur’s head, his hips rolling against the willing slide of flesh. He finally forces his hands open, clutching at Arthur’s short hair and looking down at him. The moonlight refracts the glint in Arthur’s eyes and Lancelot looks away, tilting his head back to the night and closing his eyes.

Arthur’s mouth moves over him hungrily, sucking and pulling at the flesh with quiet desperation. His hands knead Lancelot’s skin as his tongue presses hard to the thick shaft, pressure lifting Lancelot up, his muscles straining until Arthur eases back, pulling away before capturing him again.

He gasps, unable to stop the sound as Arthur’s mouth closes over him again, the hot rush of desire threading through him. He curves his hand around the back of Arthur’s head on instinct, his mouth open with impending release when the night air sucks at him and Arthur looses and anguished growl as his rough hands push Lancelot away.

He falls to the ground, shaken. His eyes snap to Arthur and he sees a mixture of desperation and something darker in his eyes. Something inside him stills and he blinks rapidly, and looks away. “Is this what I give you?” He asks softly. “This despair?” He nods once and closes his eyes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “Very well.”

He starts to stand, only to find himself pinned to the ground, Arthur’s heavy weight hard above him. He hears the wet sound as Arthur pulls away then feels the wet thickness of the mead against his skin. Calloused fingers thrust inside him and he digs his own into the dirt, scrabbling for purchase as Arthur’s knees press against his calves and the soft rustle of cloth gives way to the quick slap of Arthur’s flesh on his.

There is no hesitation as he thrusts back as Arthur penetrates him. The woods around them are still and silent and his own breath clouds his face. He pants his need into the air as Arthur’s body collides with his, thrusting hard and fast and deep. Finally, Arthur stops and they both remain unmoving as the slow shudder runs through Arthur into Lancelot and heat fills him, his own body making sacrifice to the earth.

Arthur gets to his feet slowly. Lancelot remains on his hands and knees, his head bowed until Arthur speaks, voice thick with emotion. “Get up.” He doesn’t look back as he strides away toward camp. “I will not see you on your knees for me.”

**

Salvation for him has always come in the swing of a sword or a hoarsely whispered prayer. Tonight it comes with smooth, painted skin and tender flesh. Teeth that bite to please not to wound and a source of heat the warms something cold inside him.

Arthur lets her guide his hand, strong and sure even though it is all unfamiliar. He touches curves and hears sighs that echo in his head like the peal of bells, obliterating everything in his mind but the sensations that ply his senses.

He feels heat and closes his eyes, surrendering. He prays silently to feel, his heart beating out a rhythm that he does not recognize in her hungry embrace. He prays for guidance as she closes around him, for forgiveness, for release as dark eyes haunt him. He leans in to taste her, to mask the hint of betrayal on his tongue, his hands on her hips as he fights the instinct to push her away and pulls her closer.

Jols’s voice breaks them apart and Arthur gasps out a breath as she slips away from him. He dresses quickly as he moves toward the wall and strides through the mass of people to the stairs to find his indiscretion has preceded him. He looks away from Lancelot’s accusing stare to the fires burning outside the wall.

He is a soldier, a warrior, above all else. He looks at Lancelot, not hearing the words that try to stop him. He touches him one last time, his fingers catching the hard pulse at the base of his neck. It is a family tradition to die in battle. And to leave those he loves behind.

**

In battle everything else is gone. Only the sword and the enemy matter. Lancelot knows this, lives this. It is how he has stayed alive when other knights have fallen. But even through the stench of death and burning fat, he smells the scent of sex and lust and _her_ that clung to Arthur’s skin.

He swings his sword more viciously, the death knell of the Saxon sliding off his blade loud in his ears. Freedom is like a dream clouding his vision as he turns and sees her, everything around him halting for an instant out of time.

No family. No religion. Nothing to live for save a man bent on dying for a noble cause, a man who castigates himself for every moment between them. A lifetime of moments, he realizes as the world crashes in around him again. If Arthur will not take what Lancelot can offer, he will offer him more he thinks as his swords clash with the Saxon’s and he slides into battle in front of the girl.

He fights with renewed strength, his swords light and sharp. He turns then and the bolt hits. On instinct, he throws and falls. On his knees, he thinks wryly, moving forward until he can sink his sword into the Saxon’s neck. In the Saxon’s death he will offer Arthur victory. And freedom with his own.


End file.
